


Weather conditions

by Novels



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I blame this on the season, Like, M/M, the weather season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-02 19:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8681329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novels/pseuds/Novels
Summary: Mycroft and Greg both have a small secret, like walking in the rain, and are forever annoyed at Sherlock.





	1. Fog

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is really just me experimenting. It is 3 chapters long, and it is practically finished. I hope you like it!

I saw the fog grow thick,

Which soon made blind my ken;

It made tall men of boys,

And giants of tall men.

 

It clutched my throat, I coughed;

Nothing was in my head

Except two heavy eyes

Like balls of burning lead.

_-The Fog, by William Henry Davies_

 

Detective Inspector Lestrade was a simple man, with simple needs and simple desires. Specifically, what he truly yearned for right at that moment was a hot shower, a giant burger and a good night’s sleep. It had been a long and complicated day down at New Scotland Yard, and having Sherlock running around the crime scene like an overexcited puppy hadn’t helped much.

‘Maggots!’ he had exclaimed gleefully, before hopping out of a window and disappearing into the crowd surrounding the victim’s house. Lestrade hadn’t even bothered to follow him, knowing all too well how useless such a task would be. He was sure Sherlock would come back at some point, if anything just to insult his inability to solve the case faster, and then he would have the answers he needed.

Lestrade’s mind was still on his case as he stepped out of his office and into the cold night, yet his thoughts got distracted by the scene that presented itself under his eyes. A thick fog covered the streets and buildings of central London, making it almost impossible to see through. It was a spectral view, and the fog felt like a soft blanket trying to wrap itself around Greg, cozy, if a tiny bit suffocating. Greg stared into the distance, unable to see anything, enjoying the makeshift solitude that the fog provided. Even the sounds felt muffled to Greg’s ears, as if the world had taken a step back, leaving him alone on a different standpoint. It was a very rare occasion, feeling this way in London. Most of the times the city dragged you along, willing or not, forcing you to adapt to its crazy pace to the point of exhaustion.

Greg smiled softly, forgetting about the case and just feeling. He truly loved his city, especially in days like that. They made him feel like he was in a detective story from the nineteenth century, magnifying lens and all, ready to sprint after some petty criminal on the run. Greg would never admit it, but he was a sucker for those stories, and he spent much of his free time reading old novels in the solitude of his flat.

He started off towards his home, resolved to walk all the way there, letting the ghost of other passers-by fade away as he advanced.

* * *

 

His clothes were covered in a thin layer of condensation, his hair slightly wet by the humidity in the air.

It was a perfect night, thought Lestrade, a night of tranquillity and faceless encounters.

The fog didn’t seem to be dissipating at all, engulfing him all the way home as if it were hugging him. It was peaceful and drowsy, which is why Lestrade didn’t notice there was somebody on his doorstep right until he almost bumped against him.

* * *

 

Mycroft Holmes was not a man of sentiment. Anyone who had ever laid eyes on him could confirm that. He was renowned for his ability to freeze out any emotion that could impair his judgement, and his fame as ‘the Iceman’ preceded him. However, were there somebody in the world that truly knew Mycroft Holmes, they would probably disagree with such a harsh evaluation of the man. They might even protest against it, suggesting that no such a description could ever fit the one and only Mycroft Holmes. Luckily, or maybe unluckily, there was virtually no-one that could oppose such an objection. Mycroft Holmes had been very careful not to let anybody in throughout his adult life, which he considered as beginning at the age of twelve. For this reason, his passions and emotions were completely hidden to the world, to the point that nobody would ever suspect that he had an inclination for walks in the fog, or that he nurtured the art of painting, nor that his loft was also the home of a tabby cat named Rodolpho.

Given the circumstances, to you, smart reader, it won't come as a surprise to know that, just as Detective Inspector Lestrade crossed the city to reach his flat, the very Mycroft Holmes was walking through the foggy streets of London, lost in thought, or as lost in thought as a man of such intelligence could be.

In full honesty, there was little of unplanned in the route he took, slowly but steadily directing his steps towards the home of the person he wished to see. Once arrived, he climbed the few steps that separated him from the doorbell and rang it, leaning on his umbrella and waiting. No answer came, and a quick look at the building made him sure of what he had already known: nobody was at home.

Mycroft waited a few moments, reflecting on where the person he was looking for might be, based on his last movements, when the sound of somebody clearing their throat made him turn on his heels.

‘Mister Holmes,’ said Mrs. Hudson, evidently waiting for him to let her pass. ‘Are you looking for your brother?’

Mycroft moved to let her reach her door. ‘Indeed I am,’ he answered.

‘Then you are knocking at the wrong door. Your brother left hours ago, he was mumbling something about maggots, heaven knows where he was going.’

Mycroft sighed. ‘Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I will look for him elsewhere.’

Mycroft stepped off the stairs and into the sidewalk, reaching for his phone in his left pocket.

‘Anthea,’ he said, ‘locate my brother, please.’

A few moments later, Mycroft was walking towards his next destination, slowly disappearing into the thick fog.

* * *

 

‘Sherlock, what do you want now?’ sighed Lestrade, having recognized the man standing on his doorstep. His peaceful walk apparently didn’t deserve a happy ending.

‘Lestrade, it was about time you got back home. I need you to give me some more of those maggots. They are of a truly fascinating nature!’

‘Maggots?’ repeated him, disbelieving. ‘You have been waiting on my doorstep for maggots?’

‘Of course I have. Molly won’t give them to me.’ Sherlock pouted.

‘I wonder why, brother dear.’ A third voice interrupted their conversation.

‘Mr. Holmes,’ said Greg in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I have come to collect my brother, Detective Inspector. It appears I am in need of talking to him right away.’

‘It won’t surprise you, Mycroft, to know that I have no interest in talking to you, though.’

‘It is a matter of national relevance, Sherlock. However insignificant that may sound to you, I am sure John would appreciate your, ah, _commitment_ to such a matter.’

Sherlock hesitated visibly. Lestrade suppressed a smirk. The older brother knew how to play his cards.

‘Lestrade was about to give me some exceptional maggots, Mycroft.’

‘I was not.’

‘Another good reason to follow me, Sherlock. Additionally, I might be able to get you those maggots, were you to collaborate on this matter right away.’

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. ‘I want the maggots, and I want you to leave me alone for a month after I’ve solved your dumb case.’

‘We can call it a deal, brother mine. Now, if you don’t mind, it is time for us to leave. Good night, Detective Inspector.’

Mycroft turned away and towards the black car that had stopped next to the sidewalk, a big, blurry shape in the thick fog that seemed to devour them both as they got on silently.

Greg stared at it as it disappeared, wondering if Mycroft was aware of the thin layer of drops that made his hair shine under the dim lights of the street lamps.

* * *

 

That Detective Inspector Lestrade had a weakness for the older Holmes was no novelty to him. He had been attracted to the man since the first time he had laid eyes on him, and Greg blamed his passion for old-fashioned novels for that silly crush of his. After all, that man seemed to have jumped right out of the nineteenth century, with his elegant wardrobe, his aristocratic attitude and his ability to reign over Britain from the backstage.

Nevertheless, Greg was not planning on acting on it any time soon. He was pretty sure it was just a momentary crush, and he was well aware that crushes tended to dissolve into nothing if not acted upon. It was all for the better.

Still, nothing had stopped him from noticing how ginger and shiny Mycroft’s hair looked in the dim light of the street lamps, as if he had been walking through the fog for a while, and if that was going to feature in his dreams, well, nobody had to know.


	2. Mist

The fog to the bare hills 

soars in the thin rain,

and below the wind

howls and churns the sea; 

[...]

in the reddening clouds

flocks of black birds,

like exiled thoughts

as in the dusk they flee.

 

_ -San Martino, by Giosuè Carducci _

  
  


London was, for better or worse, his city and Mycroft Holmes loved it deeply. He loved it best, however, when its weather reflected his mood and he had the chance to indulge in it. That was one of those rare moments. Mycroft had been sitting at the Diogenes Club for hours, reading reports and newspapers, his mind only half-absorbed by the task. The rain had been pouring steadily, tapping a makeshift soundtrack to his mental ramblings, and it finally had stopped a few moments before, leaving behind only a dense mist and a peaceful silence. Mycroft felt the urge to leave his work behind for an evening, and, considered he actually had the opportunity to do just so, rose daintily from his armchair and quietly left the cosy embrace of the club, immersing himself in the air full of moisture. The earthy smell of petrichor hit his nostrils, filling him with peace, and the little drops of water trapped in the mist caught to his hair and jacket. It was engulfing and liberating at the same time. 

Mycroft headed off towards his home, well aware it was simply too far away for him to reach it on foot. His lean figure advanced like a spectre through the streets of London. His thoughts were somewhere else, roaming high like a majestic eagle. 

Mycroft was thinking about Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Now, nobody in the world, not even his little brother Sherlock, believed it was possible for him to have feelings of any kind, and Mycroft had used that assumption to his advantage. Were he to lose himself in thought, anybody would assume he was focused on some strategic issue, were he to comment positively on someone’s actions or features, anybody would interpret it as sarcasm. 

Mycroft let them. People loved to be right, to the point of ignoring all evidence of the contrary in order to keep believing in their absolute mental abilities.

All this to say that Mycroft was thinking about Detective Inspector Lestrade, but nobody on earth would ever guess either the topic nor the nuance of his thoughts.

Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman, was remembering how handsome the Detective Inspector looked the last time he’d seen him, on his doorstep, with his cheeks reddened by a long walk in the cold fog.

They were bittersweet thoughts, pleasant yet merely fictitious. Mycroft was well aware that there was no chance for them to be more than a fantasy, a wish. 

All the same, he felt inclined to fix them on canvas.

Tapping away on his phone, Mycroft summoned his car, his mind set on the night ahead of him.

* * *

 

The crime scene looked surreal, the mist blurring the shapes of the bodies moving around the victim, making them look like ghostly apparitions. A tall one, with a long coat and a fluttering scarf, was moving erratically up and down the area, mumbling by himself as he made his deductions. John and Lestrade were standing at the edge of the perimeter, waiting for Sherlock to finish. 

‘What a lovely day, gentlemen,’ said a voice behind them. Mycroft stepped up to them and leant on his umbrella, his eyes following Sherlock as he moved around. 

‘Mycroft,’ mumbled John, eyeing him suspiciously. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘The same as always, doctor Watson. I’m looking for my little brother. Has he finished playing yet?’  

‘Oi, this ain’t a game, Mr. Holmes!’ snapped Lestrade.

‘Of course not, Detective Inspector. I meant no offence. But you will admit that Sherlock tends to consider a crime scene as his personal playground.’

The detective chose that moment to walk up to them.

‘Mycroft, what do you want now? Has a month passed yet?’

‘Indeed it has, brother mine. And here I am, in search of your assistance once again.’

‘I have a case, Mycroft.’

‘ _ Our Detective Inspector here _ has a case, Sherlock. At any rate, you have already solved it.’

Sherlock scoffed. ‘Of course I have. It is evident.’

‘Is it?’ asked John.

‘It was his maid. She drugged him and then threw him in the river.’

‘Did she?’ asked Lestrade, doubtful.

‘Of course. Just  _ look _ at him.’

‘I am looking at him, Sherlock. I still don’t see what you mean.’

Sherlock snorted in contempt and walked away. ‘C’mon, Mycroft. To avoid this dumbness I’d even help you.’

‘Sherlock!’ Lestrade called out, irritated. ‘How do you know?’

Sherlock walked away without answering, John in tow.

‘I suggest you have a close look at the shoes of your victim, Detective Inspector. They might be illuminating,’ offered Mycroft with a small smile. ‘Have a nice day.’

* * *

 

Mycroft was in the shower, washing away the dirt that a long day of fieldwork had stuck to his skin. Sherlock, sitting on a stool in the big kitchen of his brother’s home, was cradling a mug full of hot tea, reflecting absentmindedly on the case they had just solved. He would never admit it, but most of the times his brother had at least vaguely interesting issues to submit to his attention. If Sherlock had to stretch it, he would even possibly say that his brother knew his tastes and operated accordingly. 

Anyway, that was an irrelevant consideration, and Sherlock moved his eyes around, cataloguing what he saw in his brother’s kitchen. Coffee machine, with the thinnest layer of dust, kettle still boiling hot, the odd dirty dish in the sink, a few brushes on the drainer, a half-finished pack of waffles. Rodolpho’s bowls on the floor, full of food and water, even though the cat was nowhere to be seen. It didn’t like Sherlock very much.

Boring kitchen, thought Sherlock. Boring appliances, boring cat. Boring brother, because he couldn’t help but taunt him even in his mental chatter. 

But, no. There was something interesting. Brushes in the drainer.

Why were they there? Mycroft had not painted in ages. Or had he?

Sherlock slid off the stool in one elegant move, looking around and assessing. Where would his brother keep his new paintings? Regardless of what people might think, his brother’s loft was not big and ancient, but modern and quite small, the space divided in one big kitchen and living room, two bedrooms with an en-suite and a study that doubled as a makeshift gym. All things considered, there weren’t so many options. 

A quick look made him sure no new painting was in sight, so Sherlock moved, logically, to the study, sure to find evidence there. His confidence was frustrated, though, as he moved to the second bedroom and then the first without finding any trace of a new painting. It was absolutely impossible that Mycroft kept it in the bathrooms, so Sherlock was prone to thinking that his brother had produced no new piece of art, yet the brushes in the kitchen suggested the exact contrary. 

Not that Sherlock cared that much about it, but this was a little mystery, and anything that worked as a distraction was well-accepted. 

Standing in the middle of Mycroft’s bedroom, Sherlock joined his hands under his chin, reflecting. He was quite sure there was a new painting, but it was nowhere to be seen, which implied that Mycroft had hidden it. Now, the seemingly plain loft, with its lovely view on the Tower of London, was not as simple as one might think at a first glance. Mycroft was not, after all, a minor government official, nor a person with an overt life. Just like the man, the flat was a masterpiece of secrecy, with a myriad of hidden spots, bolt-holes and possibly even a safe-room. Sherlock had yet to discover them all, which made the impromptu treasure hunt a tad more entertaining.  

Moving quickly, and paying attention to the sound of water coming from the bathroom, Sherlock run his hands along the walls until his fingers sensed a little difference in the texture. Sherlock smiled and pushed against the spot. A small door, perfectly hidden from the view, opened, revealing an empty hole. Sherlock pouted at it and closed the door, moving on in his research. He found another secret spot, protected by a touch pad, on the side of the bedpost. He let it be, well aware that Mycroft would only choose a random passcode. 

Moving on to the second bedroom, he searched for other bolt-holes, coming up empty-handed.

Irritated, he moved back to the living room, letting himself fall on the sofa, one hand hanging from it and almost touching the floor. 

In a second, he was back on his feet. Stupid, he thought. He had assumed the painting was finished, but it was completely possible that his brother was still working on it. In that case, he hadn’t hidden it, only put away. Old habits die hard.

Sherlock knelt next to the sofa and reached for something under it. A flat box. 

He grinned in satisfaction: under his eyes was a half-finished painting. It was still a sketch in some parts, but the subject was fully recognisable. Sherlock stared at it, trying to understand. The brown eyes of Detective Inspector Lestrade stared back at him, unanswering. 

Feeling the water stop, he took a quick photo of the painting and let it slide under the sofa, then he regained his seat at the kitchen counter.

Cradling the mug of now lukewarm tea, Sherlock started to think.


	3. Haze

It was conscious of a luminous and infinite haze, as if it were floating, godlike, alpha and omega, over a sea of vapour and looking down.

- _Mantissa, by John Fowles_

 

‘John, come here.’

John sighed and looked at his flatmate, who had been sitting on his armchair since he’d come back home, eyes fixed on his phone, without uttering a word. 

‘What is it now? You feel like acknowledging my existence once again?’

‘No, I need your opinion on a matter I find quite puzzling.’

John raised an eyebrow, moving closer to Sherlock, who turned his phone to let John see better.

‘That’s… Greg. It definitely looks like Greg. Where did you find it?’

‘What do you think it conveys?’ asked Sherlock without answering.

‘He looks peaceful, almost happy. The painter has been kind with him, too. He has no wrinkles around his eyes.’

‘Kindness, then?’

‘I don’t quite know, Sherlock. I guess fondness might describe it better. But for all I know it could be an objective portrayal.’

‘There is no such a thing as an objective painting, John. The painter cannot avoid to portray what  _ he  _ sees.’ Sherlock muttered distractedly.

‘Well, then. Where is the painting now? Have you broken into Lestrade’s flat again?’ asked John with dread.

‘Don’t be idiotic, of course not.’

John narrowed his eyes. ‘Then tell me where you saw it.’

‘Somewhere highly unexpected,’ said Sherlock raising from his chair and grabbing his coat. ‘I have to think.’

‘Sherlock, it’s past midnight. Where are you going?’

‘Out.’ And with a flap of his scarf, he was gone. 

John sighed and looked at him walking away from Baker street from the window. He let the curtain fall and moved out of the living room, heading to his bedroom. There was no use in waiting up.

* * *

The first sunrays crossed what little remained of the mist that had covered London, dissolving in a pale haze. Sherlock was standing on a rooftop, staring at the odd person that appeared on the pavement. It was too early for the city to be awake, but soon the streets would be filled with commuters, eternally in a rush to reach their workplace in time.

He took one last drag from his cigarette, stepping on its butt to put it out, then took out his phone, staring at the picture of the painting. He was puzzled. 

John said it conveyed fondness, and he usually was a reliable judge of emotions, but that didn’t make any sense if applied to his brother. For all his life, Sherlock had been absolutely sure Mycroft was completely incapable of feeling any sort of emotion for another human being. There was his cat, sure, but Sherlock thought of it more like a purely opportunistic relationship on both sides. One got food and the other the appearance of normality. To be faced with circumstantial evidence of the contrary equated with the discovery that the earth went around the sun. (Or was it vice versa?)

Now, what was he supposed to do about it?

Did Lestrade know? Or even worse, was he a willing, aware model? 

Sherlock huffed in slight distress, unable to find a proper way to answer his questions. There simply was no evidence to analyse, no deduction to be made. He only had a painting he didn’t completely understand, the opinion of his flatmate about it, and a load of interrogatives.

Putting his phone away, Sherlock made a decision and moved swiftly towards the stairs.

* * *

At five to seven a.m., Lestrade was having a perfectly regular day. His night shift was almost over, there had been no drama nor gruesome homicides to ruin his mood, and he was already savouring the sweetness of a morning’s rest when his office door slammed open and Sherlock stormed in, stopping in front of his desk with a determined face.

‘What is it?’ asked Lestrade, trying not to look too exasperated.

‘Lestrade, you have to explain yourself. What are you doing with my brother?’ Sherlock’s voice sounded a tad hysteric, thought Lestrade, not understanding the question fully.

‘Nothing?’ he answered tentatively, wondering what this was all about.

‘Then how do you explain the evidence I have collected of a-- an acquaintance between the two of you?’

‘An acquaintance? Sherlock, are you high? I haven’t seen your brother in a month, and even then, he had only come to collect you.’

‘Then why,’ asked Sherlock, fiddling with his mobile and turning it so that Lestrade could see, ‘explain to me, why is he painting your face in his free time?’

Lestrade stared at the picture on Sherlock’s phone without understanding. There was no doubt that it was his face, but…

Lestrade looked at Sherlock, then at the painting again. ‘Mycroft made this?’

Sherlock shrugged. ‘It is evident. Same brush strokes, same colour palette. My question is why, not who.’

‘Well, I do not know, and honestly I wonder why you aren't asking your brother, instead of coming to me.’

Sherlock hesitated. ‘John said it conveyed fondness.’

Lestrade blinked. ‘Fondness.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And Mycroft painted it.’

‘Yeah.’ 

‘Well.’ Greg was speechless. Sherlock was suggesting his brother was fond of him. Of all people. ‘I don’t know what to say, Sherlock. I don’t really know your brother.’

Sherlock scoffed. ‘Just as you don’t know many other things. Silly of me to think you might be useful for once.’

‘Oi!’ protested Lestrade, but Sherlock had already left the office. 

Not that it really mattered. Lestrade had a more interesting issue to analyse.

* * *

Mycroft, alone in his house, was wondering what sort of favourable cosmic conjuncture had allowed him two free nights in two months. Cleaning up the dirty dishes, he hummed along to  _ Singing in the Rain _ , his hips moving slightly with the music. He dried his hands on a towel, then moved to the living room. He had a full evening on his hands, and he was determined not to waste it. 

He set up the easel and positioned the half-finished painting so that the light was just right. The subject was still clearly imprinted in his memory, and Mycroft had no trouble starting off from where he had left. 

He focused on the background, which he left somewhat blurred, painted with wide strokes to give the general impression of a house half hidden in the fog, the only source of light being the lampposts on the street. He worked quickly, eager to move to the protagonist of his painting, whose features were only generally resembling the original. 

Mycroft got completely lost in the act of painting, safe in the privacy of his flat. His strokes fell on the canvas with precision, chiselling a handsome face, adding details, depth, and verisimilitude to the subject. He was so engrossed in his work that he didn't even hear the sound of a key turning in its lock, only noticing his brother after he had stepped into the open space.

Mycroft, who was facing the front door, froze like a deer caught in the light. 

‘Sherlock, I must say this is a surprise. How did you know I was at home?’ he asked, lowering the brush in what he hoped was a casual gesture.

‘I didn’t.’

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. ‘Then, may I ask what you were expecting to find in my empty flat?’

Sherlock scoffed. ‘Answers.’

‘Answers,’ repeated Mycroft with a sly smile. ‘I wonder what sort of question has tickled your brain to the point of making you come all the way to my supposedly empty home to satisfy your curiosity. I would expect your mind palace to suffice in giving you all the information you need.’

‘What are you painting?’ asked Sherlock abruptly, looking irritated.

‘Nothing relevant, brother mine. I’m just practising in the hope of not losing my touch.’ Mycroft knew he sounded nonchalant. He was a master of deceit, after all.

‘Pure exercise, then.’ Sherlock had a weird expression on his face.

‘Indeed.’

‘I am not sure I believe you.’

‘Why shouldn’t you, Sherlock? After all, you do know I mostly paint out of commitment. It is just a pity to lose an ability after so many years of nurturing it.’

‘Then you won’t mind if I have a look, right?’ Sherlock was already advancing. Mycroft turned slightly to get his body between the painting and his brother. If he was sure of one thing, it was that he didn’t want to explain why he was portraying Detective Inspector Lestrade.

‘It isn’t finished yet, brother mine. I wouldn’t spoil it for you.’ Mycroft caught his brother by the arm and pushed him towards the kitchen. ‘Why don’t we get some tea? I was about to make myself some anyway.’

Sherlock huffed. ‘Fine, tea.’

Mycroft busied himself with kettle and tea leaves, keeping an eye on his little brother, currently perched on a stool at the counter, looking like a vulture ready to prey on his victim. Mycroft felt very much like said victim.

‘Now could be a good time to tell me what answer you wanted to find in my house,’ he hinted sweetly.

Sherlock smiled, cradling the cup of tea he had been offered. ‘I was just wondering why you are painting Lestrade, that’s all.’

Mycroft almost choked on his tea. ‘You what?’

‘I am pretty sure you have understood me perfectly, brother dear, if your expression is anything to go by.’ Sherlock had a sarcastic grin on his face. It was nice to get the upper hand on his brother for once.

Mycroft tried to regain control of his face. ‘As I said, I’m just practising. Specifically, I’m practising portraits. I chose the Detective Inspector randomly. His image happened to cross my mind the moment I was about to start, and I believe he makes as good a subject as anyone else would. I suppose you have spotted the painting the last time you have been here.’

‘You left the brushes out to dry.’

‘So you felt entitled to go hunting.’

‘I love mysteries.’ Sherlock let his arrogant facade fade for a moment. ‘I don’t believe you about Lestrade. But I cannot understand. I asked John.’

Mycroft’s expression was blank. ‘Then you should have received a proper answer. I am sure your doctor has given you his qualified opinion.’

Sherlock scoffed. ‘His answer doesn’t fit. If it were anyone else I could believe it, but not you.’ 

‘So you have come to me for an explanation. I have given it to you.’

‘Your little story is a lie.’

Mycroft’s sardonic smile was back. ‘Not everything is a mystery worth solving, Sherlock. I can assure there is nothing to more to discover for what concerns this particular one.’

‘I know you,’ muttered Sherlock.

‘Of course, brother mine. And way better than doctor Watson can claim to.’ Sipping his own tea, Mycroft hoped his brother felt inclined to discard John Watson’s opinion. If Sherlock’s confusion was anything to go by, he feared that the doctor had been able to see though the painting way better than he had expected. 

* * *

Sherlock was pacing, much to John’s chagrin. Hands hovering over the keyboard of his laptop, he had been trying to find the right words for his blog entry for about half an hour, but Sherlock’s irritated steps were driving him nuts.

‘Enough!’ he snapped. Sherlock stopped and turned towards him, surprised. ‘What is the problem now, Sherlock?’

‘It’s a disgrace, John. It’s ridiculous.’ Sherlock flopped down the sofa with an annoyed huff.

‘What is?’

‘That painting! It doesn’t make any sense.’

John raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re still obsessing over it? It’s just a painting.’

‘But it isn’t, John! I am absolutely certain Mycroft lied about it!’

‘Mycroft? Why is Mycroft involved in this? Have you broken into the house of some murderous millionaire with connections to the MI6 to get that photo of the painting?’

Sherlock smirked, amused. ‘In a sense, I did.’

John rolled his eyes. ‘You can’t be serious. There’s a murderous millionaire with an interest for Greg?’

‘Why are you so sure there  _ is  _ an interest for Greg?’

‘Well, to begin with, they chose him as the subject.’ John’s sarcasm went unappreciated.

‘Mycroft said it was random. He just wanted to practice portraits and Lestrade’s face stuck to his mind.’

‘Wait a moment. He? He as in Mycroft?’ Asked John, half-rising from his armchair. ‘ _ Mycroft _ painted it?’

Sherlock threw him a guilty, sideways glance.

‘Oh my God,’ muttered John, leaning back again. ‘Your brother painted it. And you don’t get why he picked Lestrade. And it’s driving you nuts.’ John felt like giggling. 

‘You said it conveyed fondness, John.  _ Fondness.’  _ He repeated the word as if it was an insult. ‘My brother doesn’t do fondness, so I’m worried he’ll try something on Lestrade.’

John pushed back the giggles. He felt like he was a gossiping teenage again. ‘He might.’ His smirk, gone unnoticed, would have explained much more than his words to Sherlock.

* * *

Lestrade was still in his office, finishing up some paperwork, when his phone rang.

‘Lestrade,’ he answered automatically.

‘Hey, Greg. It’s John. Listen, I was wondering if you’re up for a pint tonight. I’m heading to the pub right now and I could use some company.’ John’s voice sounded crinkly and a tad distorted.

Greg looked at the wall clock and sighed. ‘Yeah, why not. I should be there in thirty.’

‘Great,’ answered John’s voice. ‘See you then.’

Hanging up, Greg wrote the last words on the report and saved the file, shutting down the computer. Reaching for his coat, he allowed his thought to wander in the direction of a lean, ginger man, who for reasons unknown had been painting his face. Greg was trying not to want, but it was getting more and more difficult. Annoyed at himself, he shook his head and started walking. There was no use in daydreaming.

* * *

John, rummaging through his pockets, swore in the middle of the empty clinic. It had been a long day at work, and he had just realised that his phone was missing. Hoping he’d left it at home that morning, he hurried out of the building and towards the tube. 

* * *

When Greg arrived, the pub was almost empty. It was that time of day when it was either too soon or too late to be at a pub, but Greg and John liked it, because it gave them the chance to enjoy their night out without having to shout at each other to have a conversation. 

So, as I was saying, the pub was almost empty, and Greg waved to the bartender as he moved towards the booths lined up against the windows. He sat down and started sipping the beer that the waitress had brought him, waiting for John to arrive. The street outside was quiet, covered in a thin layer of moisture that reflected the light of the street lamps. Greg loved that time of year, when the sun set way too early and left the scene to darkness. It was a good time to think, he believed. 

The sound of a throat clearing discretely made Greg turn away from his contemplation of the landscape. Mycroft Holmes was standing next to his table, looking at odds with the place. Greg’s eyebrows jumped up in surprise. 

‘Mr. Holmes, what are you doing here?’

Mycroft looked pained. ‘Doctor Watson texted me, I felt obliged to come.’

‘John asked you out for a pint as well?’ Greg realised too late that his question could sound quite offensive. ‘Not that it is a problem, of course, I was just...’

‘A pint, Detective Inspector? Of course not. Doctor Watson required my assistance for a matter involving my infuriating brother. I deduced you were here for the same reason.’

Greg was confused. ‘No, I… John called me and asked me to get a pint. We do this from time to time. It’s almost routine.’

Mycroft, whose eyes had remained unreadable, was quick to connect the dots. ‘Sherlock,’ he muttered to himself, as if it was a curse.

‘Sherlock?’ repeated Lestrade, trying to follow him. 

‘You have probably noticed the tell-tale lack of our good Doctor Watson, Detective Inspector. This is Sherlock playing around with us. Typical of him to get back at me for not giving him a satisfying answer.’

Greg was confused. ‘You think that Sherlock made us come here to, what.. annoy us? That doesn’t make any sense, Mr. Holmes.’ Mycroft, still standing rigidly next to the table, raised an eyebrow. Greg worried he might have stepped over an invisible line, contradicting a man who always seemed perfectly aware of everything going on around him. ‘I mean,’ he tried to explain, ‘Personally, I’m not feeling annoyed, just surprised. But maybe you had better things to do than to get a pint tonight.’

Mycroft waved his hand as to dismiss Greg’s last comment. ‘That is not quite the point, Detective Inspector. There are things you are not aware of, and should not be aware of, which had Sherlock hunting down an answer he still hasn’t found.’

‘And so he’d thought that getting you and me here tonight might get him to the right solution.’ Greg was not stupid, and he knew the Holmes brothers. If Sherlock had got him there with his brother, it was because he wanted to get something out of the situation. He thought he had an idea what this was all about, and frankly, he wouldn’t mind getting an explanation, either.

‘Is this about that painting, Mr. Holmes?’ he asked candidly. A mix of surprise, irritation, and awkwardness crossed Mycroft’s face before he schooled his features back into a emotionless mask. Greg could not avoid feeling smug. It wasn’t easy to catch a Holmes by surprise. Feeling a confidence he normally lacked around the two brothers, he gestured toward the empty bench in front of him. 

‘Why don't you sit down? Since you are here, you might as well get something.’

Mycroft, putting up a fake smile, slid into the seat. A part of his mind was actively working out strategies to make Sherlock pay for telling the D.I. about the painting, while the other was assessing just how much he could lie to the man in front of him without being caught. Two hazelnut eyes pierced through him, making him squirm internally. He had never realised how powerful Detective Inspector Lestrade’s calm stare could be. It made him an even more fascinating subject. Mycroft felt the oddest urge to paint him like that, proud and confident.

‘Fancy a beer? Maybe something stronger?’ Lestrade kept his eyes on Mycroft, who was sitting with his back straight, suit perfectly aligned to his posture. Nothing transpired from him, now that he had gained his countenance again.

‘A scotch will suffice,’ he answered waving his hand in the direction of the waitress and repeating the order to her. 

Greg waited silently until the drink arrived. His stare would have made a weaker man feel uneasy, but Mycroft was used to much deeper inspections. His features showed nothing but polite interest. 

‘I am sure you haven't forgot the question, but I'll ask again. Is this about the painting?’

Mycroft picked up the glass in front of him, taking a slow sip. ‘I believe it is,’ he said, lowering the tumbler, faking utter confidence. ‘And I believe an apology is due. I would not have expected Sherlock to involve you.’

‘For real?’ Lestrade did nothing to hide his disbelief. ‘When what he found was literally my face, painted at the hands of his brother?’

Mycroft sighed. ‘Yes, Detective Inspector. I might have credited Sherlock with a tad more consideration than realistically expectable. I believe it is called wishful thinking.’

Greg smirked. Holmes was being sarcastic. He leant on his elbows and placed his face on his hands. ‘You will understand, though, that I do share an interest in this issue with Sherlock.’

Mycroft was not falling for it. He raised an eyebrow. ‘You do?’

Greg huffed. ‘God knows if I'd like to understand why you have been painting my face.’

Mycroft smirked. ‘Curiosity killed the cat, Detective Inspector.’ He was determined not to give away any on the vague, unidentified reasons he might have had to use the D.I. as a subject. ‘But I can understand where your question comes from. As I said to my infuriating brother, I was merely practicing. Your image stuck to my mind and I used it. I do hope that does not bother you excessively.’

Surprisingly, it didn't. Greg leant back against the backrest. ‘Pure practice, then.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I see why Sherlock was not satisfied with your answer, but I guess that's actually his fault. He hasn't asked the right question.’

Mycroft wondered what the D.I. was thinking. He couldn't really follow his line of thought.

‘Pray tell, then, what would be the right one?’ He asked, keeping his facade in place.

Greg’s smug smile was a tad unbalancing. ‘Why did my picture stick to your brain?’

Mycroft struggled to find a plausible answer. He certainly could not say he liked the way the fog caught to his hair, could he? ‘I liked the way the fog caught to your hair.’

Greg, who had expected some vague answer he could dismiss, was taken aback by such a direct one. ‘My hair,’ he repeated. You liked my hair.’ 

‘The  _ fog _ , Detective Inspector, and the way it stuck to it. I've been studying the subject for some time now, if you must know.’

Greg was almost speechless. ‘You've been studying how the fog catches to my hair?’

Mycroft chuckled. He was almost enjoying the conversation. ‘I've been studying _the fog_ , Detective Inspector. I find it a fascinating subject to reproduce on canvas. It's subtlety is complex. Coincidentally, I happened to meet you on a foggy day, and the scene caught my attention.’

‘This is… a plausible explanation,’ admitted Greg cautiously. He rebuked himself. What had he been expecting? For Mycroft Holmes to confess his undying passion for a gray- haired man with the unhealthy habit of surviving on take out? 

‘I believe it is, Detective Inspector.’ Mycroft should have felt relieved by the turn the conversation had taken, but, for reasons he really did not want to explore, he felt a tad disappointed. He watched the man in front of him drink what little remained of his beer and put down the glass with a thud that sounded way too loud in the silence that had followed their conversation. 

Greg, looking vaguely uneasy, got out his wallet out and put some money on the table. ‘I… I should be going now, Mr. Holmes. I wouldn't want to keep you longer. Actually, it was kind of you to stay and answer to my questions.’ Greg scratched his head, uncertain. ‘Thanks, I guess.’

Mycroft stared at him. Even if already in his late forties, Detective Inspector Lestrade was still a handsome man, with a dark stubble covering his cheeks and eyes that had remained kind even after years as a policeman. Even his wrinkles suited him. Mycroft wondered, measuring pros and cons of a decision he had unconsciously already made. 

‘Detective Inspector, I... I was wondering if you were actually interested in seeing the original painting.’

Greg, surprise written all over his face, gaped at him for a long moment. ‘I.., yes, I would like that.’

Mycroft, for once in his life, allowed a real smile to blossom on his face. 

‘Let’s go, then.’

For once, Greg did not mind being told what to do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might actually write a sequel, sooner or later. :) I'll see what happens.


End file.
